


The Bruiser Job

by cheap-perfume-and-gasoline (burning_books)



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, except it's mostly just hurt, not really - Freeform, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burning_books/pseuds/cheap-perfume-and-gasoline
Summary: Eliot Spencer always comes home.
Relationships: Eliot Spencer (Leverage)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	The Bruiser Job

You dread the nights he comes home with bruises. 

Eliot always says they're from work. You try to tell him that if his job is so dangerous then maybe he should just quit. Do something else. And he always tells you that if he did people would come home with more than just bruises, or maybe they wouldn't come home at all. At least he always comes home, he says. What if you don't, you want to answer, but you never do. He's tired. Beaten. He doesn't need a fight from you, too. But the thought sticks in the back of your mind. What if he doesn't come home. 

And that's all you can think about, when the apartment is empty and dark and the scent of his cologne has all but faded from his clothes. All you can do is wait, and hope he comes home. The whole time, Eliot's voice is in your head, saying he always comes home. And your little voice of doubt answers What if you don't, Eliot. What if you don't. 

Your heart fills with dread. It feels bruised from hammering against your ribcage. It aches. 

You dread the nights he comes home with bruises, but more that that you dread the nights he comes home bloody. After the third or fourth time he gave himself stitches in the bathroom mirror because he consistently refuses to go to a hospital, you started keeping medical grade supplies in the apartment. Just in case. You checked out medical textbooks and did research online. If med school wasn't so damn expensive you probably would have taken a few classes. 

You started to offer your help more and more, little by little, until he trusted you enough to just hand you the first aid kit, his eyes full of pleading for the help he'd never ask for aloud. It hurt your heart to see him beaten and broken, but at least he let you patch him up. His unspoken trust felt good. Warm. He was instantly loyal to anyone who showed him kindness (and to anyone who hired him, for that matter), but his genuine trust was far harder to come by.

Hearing the key rattle in the lock snaps you from your thoughts. The door opens, bangs into the wall. You hear him stumble and you're running to him before your brain catches up with your body. He's leaning heavy on the door frame when you get to him. You silently wrap his free arm around your shoulders and brace to support his weight and help him hobble across the room. 

"I'm better'n I look," he says through gritted teeth as you set him down on the couch. "I just twisted my ankle." You don't bother asking how he got up to the apartment by himself. It's better not to know. 

"Okay. We can fix that easy enough." You step back, take in the sight of him. Tangled hair, clothes torn and bloody, cuts and bruises all over. Your concern for him bleeds into every corner of your mind. It's probably written all over your face, too. "You came home," you say, before you can stop yourself.

"I'm Eliot Spencer," he says. "I always come home." His blue eyes are bright and full of pain and something you can't read.

"You're sure it's not broken? Your ankle," you say, changing the subject. You don't want to fight with him. He's fought enough.

"I'm sure. I checked it, n'I've dealt with enough broken bones, I know what to look for. Just a sprain." You nodded. 

"Then we'd better get it on ice and elevated. Anything else I should know about?"

"Just the usual cuts 'n' bruises. Nothin' major. Knife wound on my left thigh, ripped my jeans. No stitches, but it needs cleanin'." He thinks a moment, taking mental inventory. "That's the worst of it. Oh, an' I could really use a shower."

"Alright. We can fix that," you say again. "I'll get the first aid kit. Once I get your wounds cleaned up I'll run you a bath, no way I'm letting you stand on your bum ankle. Can you manage to get out of your jeans?"

He nods.

"Alright. You know the drill, strip down and for now put your foot on the coffee table. I'll deal with the rest when I come back."

You hurry to the bedroom before he can protest and grab a clean tank top, underwear, and sweatpants for him. Then you go into the bathroom, lay the clothes out, and grab the first aid kit. That done, you hurry back to the living room. Eliot waits on the couch, his right leg propped on the coffee table, his shirt and jeans in a pile on the floor. 

"You sure do have some clever ways of gettin' me undressed," he flirts, but his usual fire isn't behind it.

"It's the easiest way to clean you up. When you're not such a mess I'll show you some real clever ways of getting your clothes off," you half-flirt back as you crack open the first aid kit. You crouch in front of him to look him over. In addition to the nasty-looking gash on his thigh, he has a smaller slash on his arm and another on his side. His chest is mottled with blues and purples and greens, like a fucked-up galaxy.

You tend to his thigh first, cleaning off the blood, then sterilizing the wound. You'll bandage him up after he's out of the bath. You apologize every time he flinches.

You move, perching next to him on the couch to deal with the cut on his side, then the one on his arm. 

The silence from him is unusual. Normally he flirts and banters with you while you fix him up, or barring that he tells you about the fights. If he's not in the mood to chat he'll ask you about your days instead. Tonight he's mostly quiet, save for the occasional hiss or grunt if you hurt him. It worries you.

Your heart feels like it's beaten itself black and blue from worry and dread. "What's on your mind, El? You're awfully quiet."

He hesitates a moment. "Crossed paths with an old friend. Didn't go too well for him." It's all he says, and it's all he has to say. Eliot always did what he had to do. He knew the consequences and he did it anyway, no matter the toll it took on him. It seemed like he was a one-man army fighting a losing war sometimes, and there were far too many casualties. The bodies just kept piling up in his wake. 

"I'm sorry," you say quietly, because it's all you can say. 

"Thanks," he says back, just as soft. "I don't... I don't know what happened to him. I didn't have a choice. I had to protect the team." There's a slight quaver in his voice. He lets out a slow breath, shifts a little on the couch. "There's a chance he survives, but I hit him pretty hard. There's a chance he don't make it, an' I'll probably never know either way." The words are matter-of-fact, somehow, like he's already put distance between himself and the events he's described.

It dawns on you that the thing you couldn't read in his eyes was a horrible mix of grief and regret. 

"I'm so sorry," you say again. You dread the bruises and the blood but this is worse. This is so much worse. You could give stitches and prevent infections and help the soreness from his bruises, but you weren't sure you could heal the wound this loss left on his heart. Eliot Spencer always came home, but you were starting to wonder what the cost of that really was.

You put the first aid stuff down and take his hand in yours.

"You know I'll always protect you." It's not a question. Eliot would put his life on the line for you without a second thought.

You nod. "I know."

"'Til my dyin' day." It's a promise, an admission of love, and a cold eventuality all rolled into one. You squeeze his hand.

"As long as you always come home." This is your half of the promise.

He squeezes your hand back. "I always come home, darlin'," he says. "I always come home."

**Author's Note:**

> I have a second part to this that's a bit lighter and softer. If anyone's interested in that drop a comment and maybe I'll finish it up and post it.


End file.
